Goulash

1.Mother dog-ears the pages.Recipes with worldly nameslike stroganoff, cassoulet, ragout.In between housewifely articles abouthow to clean grout, the perfect smileand the problem with no name.Slick photos. Dangerous game.Father doesn't like his food touching.

2.Mother has a way of cockingher hip at the stove.

3.I'm roused from my readingto set the table. The flutter of bluetablecloth in a room of exotic birds,low-hanging candelabra, curiocabinet with the good china and silver.Dinner is mother's insistencedespite how late father gets home.

4.We have our places at the table.Mother and father at each end.My two sisters, me and young brotherarranged around the provincial edge.Father stares at the casserole dishin the center of the table, bubbling and bloody.The eerie translucence of cooked cabbage."What is this?" he asks, that thingwith his jaw when he's angry,even into the light of the window behind him."Goulash," says mother, lighting a cigarette,staring back in a standoff only theyknow the meaning of.

5.Father divines with a serving spoon,parting the ways of cabbage, ground beefand tomato sauce, distaste set in his chin.

7.The wideness of our eyes,sitting on our hands.Mother slowly reaches,retaliating with the spoon.Father splattered with casserole.He throws down a napkin,unable to speak past his clenched jaw.The squeegee sound of the station wagon in reverse.

8.Mother eats a small portion of casserole.We feel for each other's feet beneath the table,trying not to look at each other.Clumps of casserole cling to mother,the tablecloth and the wall like scratched scabs.We have no ideas about appropriateness or response.

9.We are excused from the table.

10.Mother clears, taking her timeon the back stoop, shaking out the tablecloth.She watches the purple martins streak and swoopin the dusking sky, searching for bugs.

11.Mother doesn't have to search for father.She knows where he is.They sashay home after bedtime,following each other's headlights.